


Just Longing

by Cecelia2046



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-09-24
Packaged: 2019-01-04 19:57:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,439
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12175596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cecelia2046/pseuds/Cecelia2046
Summary: The things she couldn’t get were more than just Sirius Black.





	Just Longing

**Author's Note:**

> This is an old story written in another language. I translated it to English for the cutest sissannis's birthday! Happy birthday love! Becoming your loo break pal is magical!
> 
> My eternal gratitude to my beta reynardinepttr. You made this little piece so much better!

When Hermione limped into 12 Grimmauld Place, Sirius was devouring a plate of pasta without sauce, sitting on the counter with one leg laying across the sink. He seemed like he hadn’t eaten anything in weeks. 

"How was Romania?" 

He muttered something she didn't manage to catch. 

She dragged a chair to the table, sat, and placed her injured leg on the table. She rolled her trouser leg up with a nonchalant expression. 

He threw his empty plate into the sink with a stretch and a happy sigh. "Fucking Death Eaters roaming the whole of Bucharest. Been eating rats for three months." 

She didn't say anything. She just concentrated on checking her injury. Blood and burned flesh might have freaked her out several years ago when she was still a Hogwarts student, but not now. Now, her observation is purely medical and methodical. 

Nah, not dark magic, just plain old physical injury. 

He's silent now. Not a common thing. She turned to him. He's staring at her, grey eyes filled with such tension and seriousness that she couldn't really understand. 

"Is there any Firewhiskey?" 

He didn't even have to think. "Nope." 

Of course he'd already known. Of course Sirius Black went to Firewhiskey instead of food first, even after eating rats for three months. 

Come to think of it, that may well be the exact reason why he craved alcohol. 

She took a deep breath and pointed her wand to her leg. She cast a quick healing charm. 

Muscles and tendons stretched and entangled. She took a deep breath. Another. And another. This healing pain is almost hilarious and pleasing compared with the Cruciatus Curse. 

She hadn't liked sleeping next to a rubbish bin in a corner of Diagon Alley. Unfortunately, the level of hygiene of Diagon Alley plummeted along with the customer flow. She had charmed herself to resemble an old and sick hag for two whole weeks last month to act as surveillance for Gringotts, which also required the occupation of that dirty and smelly corner. If you took that into consideration, then today’s mission of fighting dozens of Death Eaters in Notts Manor is truly sufficient to be called an early Christmas.

She walked to the sink, pushed his leg aside, turned on the faucet and put her head under the rushing water. His laughter vibrated inside her chest. The water is chilling. It splashed against her head and went all the way to her cheeks like a slap, gradually making her blood cold. She hadn’t seen him for three months. She heard him jumping off of the counter. In this three months, people came and went in 12 Grimmauld Place, including her. She encountered Ron once, an Auror whom she didn’t recognise another time, and Remus leaving at an ungodly hour one night. They exchanged hellos and how-are-yous and a tight hug. Sirius must be rummaging the fridge, the sound of beer opening a little explosion in her ears. The headquarters of the Order is a safe house for everyone to catch a breath. He walked behind her, his footstep still had that same rhythm, relaxed and lazy and cocky for no apparent reason. A chair was pulled out, its leg dragging along the poor wooden floor. Hermione turned off the faucet and tossed her hair behind her back. Breathe. That old smell of dust and dark magic and lost chances. Breathe. Her cold heart vibrating with her cold lungs. Breathe. He’s just behind her somewhere. Breathe. Her eyes turned glassy again. Breathe. His smell is tobacco and alcohol and a huge wet dog. Breathe. She looked down. There’s no more blood in the sink. 

"We need to talk." 

"No, love. I don't think so." 

She turned around. He’s reclining in a chair that was balancing on two legs, and his feet were on the table where people had their meals. 

Relaxed and lazy and cocky for no apparent reason. 

She has this childish impulse to kick the chair away from his ass. 

She didn’t meet his eyes. She just left the kitchen and climbed the stairs. 

I deserved it anyway, she thought, with a bit bitterness and malice and that relief you feel when something hurt you, finally, so you can stop waiting or guessing. This is what you got when you tell someone you love them. You gathered all your courage, fixed your hair, hesitated in your bedroom, paced, twisted your hands, opened a book and then closed it. You glanced at him again and again in meetings. You didn’t talk to him. You didn’t smile at him. You didn’t follow him but you knew when he’d be in library or kitchen or on that old Persian rag in front of the fireplace, contemplating. You told yourself to just say it today. Just say it today so then if he accepts, you’ll have time. You’ll have time until you don’t, because every day is the same. You gathered all your courage, fixed your hair, paced, opened the fridge and closed it. You went upstairs and downstairs and didn’t glance at him in meetings and sat as far away as possible to put him at the edge of your vision. You didn’t speak or smile and you know when he’d be alone just like every day before. You waited and waited until that last day when it’s time for him to go. You went into his bedroom. He’s packing. You closed the door and cast a Muffliato. 

“I like you." 

She deserved it. She walked into one of the bedrooms and slammed the door, demeaning herself with a bit malice. Looking back, even she wanted to reject herself. I like you? Seriously? People still say that these days? She buried her face into a towel. God damn tears. The warm liquids. Tears, blood, and the newly-made potions, trickling over her fingers. Transparent, red, black. 

No, he didn’t reject her. He stared at her with such tension and sincerity and something she couldn’t for the life of her recognise in his grey eyes. He stared at her until her bones were itching and she could see herself reflected in his eyes. A 19-year-old pale, haggard girl who has a mudblood scar on her arm. She stared back at him. She stared at the self in his eyes until she couldn’t take it anymore and fled. 

He had left half an hour later. 

Right now he’s two levels below, drinking a beer, relaxed and lazy and cocky for no apparent reason. He had a conversation with her that consisted of three sentences from him, and she hid her sobs in the rushing water under that faucet. She’s already 20 years his junior. She didn’t need to burst into tears in front of him for no obvious reason like a four-year-old who’s not allowed ice cream. No. The things she longed for but couldn't get, hadn't been ice cream since a long time ago; since the departure of her parents who had always limited her sugar intake, the loss of the old headmaster in whom she had put all her trust, and the death of Lavender who convulsed in her arms silently and stilled. No. The things she couldn’t get were more than just Sirius Black. 

Sirius Black Sirius Black Sirius Black. 

She’s just a soldier. A wand. She risked her life every day in this War-Which-Has-Been-Going-On-For-Far-Too-Long. Tears, blood, newly-made potions. Warm liquids. Freezing Diagon Alley and water and her lungs. Sirius Black is a candy. The sheer fact that he’s alive was enough to make her smile. She hadn’t heard from him for at least three months but today, today he’s alive, and he had a conversation with her that consisted three sentences from him, and he laughed. It made all her misery so trivial. 

Sirius Black Sirius Black Sirius Black. 

She dried her hair, cleaned the blood from her clothes, and went down the stairs, leaving her slightly red eyes unattended. She wanted to watch him. She wanted to watch him curse and complain and reject her. She wanted to sit with him, far enough and near enough. Far enough so he couldn’t possibly hear her heart calling for him, but near enough so she could smell his scent. Tobacco and alcohol and a huge wet dog. She heard the pop of apparition on the last step. 

There’s no one in the kitchen anymore. The beer is still on the table, half-empty. She walked to it, sat on the chair that he sat on a moment ago, and drank it all slowly. 

 

Hermione Granger was killed in a confidential Order ambush one week later. 

 

END


End file.
